


No Quiet Find

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breathplay, Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War makes a man tired...some more than most. Draco needs rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Quiet Find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleodoxa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleodoxa/gifts).



> Dearest **cleodoxa** , I do hope you enjoy this and have a very happy holiday season! I tried to include a lot of what you like, but man, did that ‘I like it when things get quite psychological' really jump in and take over the story hard. Many thanks as well to my beta-friend and to the mods for their patience and hard work in putting this all together for us. Title and header quote are from Shakespeare's Sonnet 27.

_Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,  
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

Draco leans over the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are red-rimmed with dark circles beneath, beyond exhaustion and resigned to fate, but then, he can't remember the last time he slept for more than a few hours at a time. Then, too, there are the dreams--odd, fragmented and unsettling things that feel like snatches of something greater just beyond his grasp. When he wakes, it's with gasping inhalations and hands groping outward, as if to hold on to what was there, even as it slips easily through his fingers like sand.

He sighs, closes his eyes and straightens up. It's time to go to work. It's time to be mean again. He dares not disappoint.

When he makes it to headquarters, he finds Theo and Weasley bent over a map in the kitchen, talking intently in hushed voices. It's been nearly ten years since last Draco was a Slytherin, and yet it still amuses him to see how far they all have come. That there was a time when Theo and Weasley could barely stand to be in the same classroom together, where now they are thick as thieves. Draco wonders sometimes if Weasley trusts Theo's opinion more than his own wife's--not that he would ever dare ask it aloud. Draco is not here for his thoughts, but only his skills.

War, he knows, makes for strange bedfellows, but as he watches Theo's hand slide steadily down to the small of Weasley's back, he cannot help but frown in disapproval.

"It's a trust thing," says Susan, who appears at his elbow with a welcoming cup of piping hot tea.

He takes it from her, grateful for the gesture. "What's that?"

She indicates the scene with a soft jerk of her chin. "It's not sexual between them. They just trust in each other." She laughs softly and reaches up with her free hand to clutch at a small pendant around her neck. "Luna explains it much better than I do."

Draco nods, but offers no other comment. The explanation suits well enough, but he doesn't know that he'd ever feel that comfortable with another person. What happens in the dark, late at night, eyes closed and hushed, gasping breaths in the small space between their joined bodies is one thing, but to be out in the open with that kind of casual intimacy is far beyond what Draco is capable of.

It's just _need_ at night, after all--shared need with whomever is most desperate. Although, he considers, perhaps it's just need in the daytime too, and Weasley and Theo have need just like anyone else does. With Hermione confined to her bed for the remainder of the pregnancy and Luna venturing off into the green zone more often than not, he suspects Weasley and Theo have need perhaps _more_ than anyone else.

"You think too much, Draco," Susan adds, then taps her teacup against his own in a toast for which he can't find a reason. "It's written all over your face."

He opens his mouth to retort, but then Potter enters the room with Ginevra hot on his heels, and the time for casual discussion has abruptly ended.

It still strikes Draco how much older Potter looks, no longer the gangling, scrawny teenaged boy he was when last he held the kind of power he holds now. He may not have anything more substantial to say than that there's no news from the front, but he commands the attention of the room effortlessly because this Potter is an adult, with intense, focused eyes behind his wire-frames, broad shoulders and defined muscles. He's coiled tight, though, like a viper ready to attack, the tension visible in the set of his shoulders and grim line of his lips, which suffuses Draco with dread that settles like a pit in his stomach.

"Luna didn't make it back last night," he says, cutting directly to the chase. "I don't...well, we don't know what that means, but--"

Theo's anguished cry cuts him off, and Weasley's arm tightens around his comrade's shoulder instantly. Blue eyes meet green in a vicious stand-off before Weasley finally says, "We'll have to head to the green zone. We're due in negotiations two weeks from now, but we'll just move it up. Easy-peasy. Right, Theo?"

"I don't know that we can mobilize the delegation with such short notice," Potter answers quickly, and the flicker of hurt or perhaps its jealousy in his eyes doesn't escape Draco's notice. He's learned to become quite observant in the last few years, but then, it's a necessary thing for a spy, if ever they decide to trust him with that task. He doesn't exactly blame them for not bothering.

Potter has nothing to worry about, as far as Weasley is concerned. Theirs is the sort of hard-won unbreakable bond that most friends only dream of having. Theo's opinion may be paramount over Hermione's at times, but it will never beat Potter's. Potter is the alpha and the omega in Weasley's world...perhaps all of their worlds now.

Draco shakes his head--he's being hyperbolic, and he knows it. But he supposes he can't really help himself anymore. He's meant to be seen and not heard, so he supposes it doesn't matter if he's overly dramatic in his own head; no one will ever be the wiser.

"Yes, we can," Weasley continues. "It's just a few representatives, and then we can follow up with the full delegation in two weeks, like we're scheduled."

"We're being premature, and I think you know it, Ron," Potter replies, and Draco almost thinks that the tension between the two men is visible, crackling and vibrating like lightning through the room. But no--that was just one of the dreams. He's being...he needs to leave the room.

Draco hands his teacup to Susan and goes back out the way he came; there's too much happening, too much arguing for anyone to notice his leave. The buzzing he hears grows louder the further away he walks, but that's silly because it's quiet throughout the rest of the house, and the buzzing must just be in his own head. He hates this feeling, a hot, anguished crawling thing beneath his skin.

It's dangerous outside, but it's far more dangerous within. Draco exits the back door and all but throws himself into a swing on the rickety old playset that in another life was for young Teddy Lupin. He gulps in breaths of crisp, wintry air, exhaling slowly until the ice in his lungs freezes the buzzing in his head and he feels sane again.

The more he thinks about it, the more he agrees that he's probably not cut out for the front-lines, let alone attempting to infiltrate the other side. He's too much a slave to the anxiety and would probably break at the first sign of trouble. No matter what Potter seems to think, or perhaps thought once, long ago when he was still a boy and speaking before a group of wizards determined to see Draco tossed in a cell never to be heard from again, Draco is not and never has been brave. He's a coward--but at least this time he'll be a coward on the right side of the conflict.

\-- -- -- --

It takes less than forty-eight hours to round up enough people to constitute a ‘few representatives,' but the worry over Luna's safety becomes unnecessary when she swans through the door, just as they are readying to depart, with a sandy-blond-haired man who sports the same dreamy expression that she so often wears.

"This is Rolf," she introduces him, beaming as he ducks his head in greeting. "He speaks six languages, including Mermish."

Theo rushes forward to collect her into his arms, then roughly pulls her from the room, though whether to scold her for her lack of communication or just to snog her silly, Draco doesn't know. Perhaps a bit of both. In the meantime, this Rolf just glances around the entranceway at each of the assembled Order members in turn, obviously unsure of his place and suddenly ill at ease from the number of wands surreptitiously trained on him. Draco just slips his back into its holster and heads down the stairs to his basement laboratory because this is not a problem with which he has any expertise or advice. He's meant to brew, and brew he shall.

He finds Hermione there, to his surprise and concern, carefully slicing motherwort with a silver blade. She glances up at his entrance and smiles at him before lifting a finger to her lips, as if they are the sort of people who share silly secrets with one another. He may finally be comfortable calling her by her first name, and she may have forgiven him for the monstrous things he said of her once upon a time, but neither are they friends.

"I had thought you were meant to be in your bed," he says, as he takes a place at her side and picks up his knife. "Aren't you risking the fetus?"

"No," she replies, as her free hand comes down to caress her swollen stomach. "I'm meant to take a small walk around the house once a day."

"I can't imagine that your small walk should include a long staircase on your own," Draco admonishes. 

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "I'm perfectly capable of walking down the stairs. The only reason I'm on bed-rest is because Ron is overly cautious and so is the healer. My girl is strong...I can feel it," her voice softens at the last, and she smiles. She wears motherhood well, Draco can admit.

"I suppose it's none of my business," Draco replies, after a long, quiet moment. He's not sure when he reached out and touched her belly too, but she doesn't seem to mind. She clasps her hand over his own, and Draco swears he can feel a heartbeat, even though it's ridiculous and impossible. But Merlin, she's so vulnerable, and she's carrying an actual human life within her, and they absolutely need to win this war.

Hermione sighs deeply then and gets back to her feet. Draco moves to steady her without prompting, and she smiles at him. "Walk me back to my room? The motherwort will still be here when you get back."

Draco offers her his arm, and they shuffle back up the stairs together. "Luna's returned, by the way," Draco suddenly says, when the comfortable silence between them becomes uncomfortable.

"I suspected she would be," Hermione replies.

"They underestimate her," Draco says, before he can stop himself. He holds his breath.

Hermione surprises him, when she smirks and chuckles lightly. "That, they do. She's...surprisingly equipped to handle herself."

"She's a Ravenclaw that way," Draco adds, emboldened by her agreement.

"A Ravenclaw…" She trails off, looks wistful and faraway, and Draco wonders if he's overstepped. None of them like to remember Hogwarts because it isn't Hogwarts anymore. They reach hers and Weasley's room, and Draco tries to leave her at the door, but she doesn't let go of his arm. "Come in for a moment. I'll need a bit of a hoist to get into the bed again," Hermione says quietly, and the flush in her cheeks shows him just how little she enjoys being so dependent. Hermione has never been weak before.

"There you are! Hermione, fuck, I was worried!"

Draco freezes, but Hermione just smiles and gently directs him into the room. "You're always worried, Ronald, but I'm perfectly fine, as usual," she answers, even as Weasley rushes forward to take his wife from Draco's arm and lead her to the bed himself.

"Thanks, er, Malfoy, I've got it from here," Weasley says absently, as he gingerly helps Hermione get back into bed and tucks the covers around her ample form. "You should, er, you know, er, go get back to the lab. We're nearly out of the Fever Reducing stuff, and Rolf was saying Luna wants to head right back out on another goodwill trip." He's focused entirely on his wife, and Draco feels the love radiating off both of them. They belong together, and he can't help but smile to himself, just a little bit.

Hermione's soft ‘thank you, Draco' rings in his ears, as he leaves her room and heads back down to his laboratory, and his smile stays there on his lips. It's such a small thing, that Hermione likes him and that Weasley doesn't shout at him or punch him in the face anymore, but he doesn't care that in the scheme of things it's inconsequential because it's nice to be one of them. It's nice to be part of Potter's crew. There was a brief time when that was all he'd ever wanted--then, of course, there was also a time when he didn't care either way, as he had his own crew about whom to worry. Then, it didn't matter anymore, at all.

Potter is seated exactly where Hermione had been when Draco enters the lab, and his expression is grim; though, Draco supposes, his expression is grim more often than not these days. Something terrible must have happened. Draco inhales, holds his breath and then exhales slowly, counting down from ten in his head. He can't always assume that something terrible has happened--he'll never survive that way.

"Weasley told me that Luna will be needing more Fever Reducing potions. I'll get to it straight away," he says, hoping to head Potter off at the pass.

Potter's eyes open wide, vulnerable and weary. "Malfoy," he says, "I'm going to need something to help me sleep, if you could."

That, Draco can do too.

\-- -- -- --

The faucet in his en suite drips just unsteadily enough that Draco can't find a rhythm to lull himself to sleep. He could call for Mazzie to fix it, or he could take some of the Dreamless Sleep that Mother is always leaving by his bedside, but neither of those options will actually work--he's wound too tightly. He idly wonders if perhaps he could cry himself to sleep, like a child might, but he doesn't think he can muster up enough sadness to do so.

With a sigh, he abandons his bed and pads naked out onto the balcony. He watches the early December snows whipping about the Manor grounds, as a wind-storm gains momentum. Draco hastily casts a warming charm, rather than head back inside to the warmth of his bed, because the fuzziness in his head is quickly dissipating in the face of the crisp winter air. He wishes it wasn't so dangerous to be outside. He suspects that constantly being cooped up inside is doing his head in.

A rising whirl of snow suddenly begins galloping towards him, and he grips tightly to the balcony railing, icy fear flooding his veins, until he realizes that it's just one of those Patronus messages that Potter insisted upon teaching everyone to cast.

It's a stag--Potter's own, then. It opens its mouth, and Potter's voice informs him that _now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York_. Draco smiles at Potter's naive cautiousness. Haven't all their codes been broken at this point? What could it possibly matter if one of them finds out that Potter wants to have a Floo call with him?

He returns to his bedroom and throws on a robe, then kneels before the fireplace and opens the complicated wards on the private Floo. Potter's face appears, green and washed-out, a moment later.

" _And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried_ ," Draco says.

Potter nods. "I thought you might be up," he replies. "Can you come to the house?"

"The draught should have been enough for the week. I don't want to make you another one," Draco responds. Potter looks confused, but then a smile spreads his face and he starts to laugh, and Draco nearly falls backward out of his crouch at the genuine mirth. When is the last time he saw Potter so happy? "What's so funny?" He continues, crossing his arms across his chest against the squirm of discomfort that lances through him at being made the butt of Potter's joke.

"Why do you always assume I just need a potion?" Potter's tone is playful, amused.

"Don't you?" Draco replies, wary.

"Not always," Potter answers. He glances away for a moment, seeming to gesture to someone just out of view, then turns back, his grin still wide and unnerving. "Come to the house."

Draco's eyes narrow. Something isn't right. " _I am armed and well-prepared…_ "

"Shit, er … give me a second," Potter hedges, and his hand appears in the fireplace, where it scratches at the days-old stubble on his chin. He lights up then and points his finger out. If Draco wanted, he could reach through the flames, grab it and pull Potter through to the Manor. " _Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well!_

When Draco arrives at headquarters, slightly dizzy and annoyed from a combination of no sleep and Apparition, Potter meets him at the door with a bottle of Ogden's Old, two crystal tumblers and an amused expression on his face. "Do you know," Draco says, even though it's none of his business and he's not supposed to express his opinion about anything having to do with policy, "that this new coding system we have is crap? All someone really needs is a working knowledge of Shakespeare."

Potter narrows his eyes thoughtfully. Then, he says, cautiously, "What relative do you and I share?"

"Dorea Potter, on my mother's side," Draco answers easily. "But anyone who knows the lineage of pure-blood families could have told you that."

"So...tell me something only you would know about you and I," Potter says, and he's cheeky again, a playful smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. "And do it while you follow me into the study where I'll pour us these drinks."

Draco follows after Potter, even though something in his gut says that something odd is happening. And yet, it always feels like something odd is happening, doesn't it? A war's on, and he's brewing potion after potion for goodwill missions and fallen soldiers in what essentially amounts to a one-man apothecary, and he can't bloody sleep through the night anymore, especially with Potter rolling over and practically smothering him when he tries--except that no, that never actually happened. Potter doesn't sleep with him. Potter isn't nice to him. Potter...Potter tolerates him? Potter ignores him generally, except when he needs something?

He sits down on the couch, puzzled and unsure. " _What a piece of work is man..._ "

" _How noble in reason,_ " Potter continues, pouring out two fingers each into the fancy tumblers and then slipping one into Draco's waiting hand while he straddles Draco's lap. " _How infinite in faculties_."

"‘Faculty,' Potter," Draco whispers, as Potter leans in and presses butterfly kisses to the tip of his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids. "It's singular."

"I was never really one for blank verse, Draco," Potter replies, as he leans back again and drains the whiskey in two long swallows. His Adam's apple bobs, and as he tilts his head back to finish, the column of his throat is exposed and tempting.

Draco's free hand slithers up of its own accord, settles around Potter's neck with his thumb resting at the trachea. He squeezes gently and Potter gasps, even as he tilts his chin up to allow Draco better access. Draco presses a little tighter, and Potter's eyelids flutter closed but his lips part in a silent ‘oh' that Draco knows from experience is pleasure, knows that Potter who is always so strong, so put-together, so in control, loves the feeling of helplessness as Draco steals the very air from his lungs.

The glass slips from Potter's bloodless fingers, falling to the carpet without a sound, and Draco watches it roll along the slight slope towards the fireplace. Potter begins to shift his hips, minutely, a hint of friction for his hard cock which brushes against Draco's own.

"Look at me, Potter," Draco commands, and even though the lack of oxygen is rapidly diminishing Potter's ability to do anything other than feel the giddy pleasure that comes from the deprivation, he opens his eyes, only to have them roll back in his head. Draco lets go then, he knows when it's time to let go, and Potter draws in a heavy, ragged breath before crying out, spending himself in his trousers like a teenager.

Potter collapses forward against Draco's chest, and Draco runs shaking hands up Potter's back, soothing, muttering nonsense about what a good boy Potter had been and ignoring the pressure building in his own cock. He needs release too, but he doesn't dare ask it. He can take care of it himself later, after Potter's gone. Because he knows, deep down, that Potter isn't here.

Potter was never here.

"Malfoy!"

Draco looks up. He can read the worry on Potter's face even with the wavering green of the flames. "Yes?" Draco asks.

"Malfoy, are you all right?"

Draco gives the honest answer. "I don't know."

\-- -- -- --

They're all talking about him in the Weasleys' bedroom. Draco's not stupid--he knows that they're talking about him in hushed tones and sudden, worried outbursts, and when he slips quietly into the room with the tray of Hermione's prenatal potions, the three of them look up, guilty and concerned, and Draco hurriedly schools his expression to one of indifference. Because he's not worried or anxious, and the less he shows that he's upset by whatever the hell is happening to him, the less they will try to help. They have far more important things about which to worry, like the upcoming negotiations.

"We're running low on essence of dittany," he says, as he bustles forward and places the tray on the small bedside table. "The next time someone goes gathering, we'll need to--"

"--Malfoy, what did you do this morning?" Potter interrupts.

Draco pauses, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what did you do this morning? From the time you woke up until right now, can you tell me what you did?" Potter asks, carefully getting up off the bed and crossing to come around and stand at Draco's side. Weasley and Hermione exchange a glance, and Hermione sits up a little straighter in the bed, as she reaches for her potions.

"Since when do I need to report my every activity to you like you're my child-minder or something?" Draco replies. "Last I checked, you lot had gotten over your mistrust of me. Has that changed?" He tries to keep his tone even, ignore the impulse to snap, as even now, years after Draco has made his peace with the man, Potter still has the ability to rile him up like none other, but it's difficult as his hackles rise, as Potter's hand twitches towards him, and the buzzing starts up in his head, faint, but present, warning.

"We trust you, Draco, it's just…" Hermione trails off, a look of discomfort twisting her face. She lowers a hand to her stomach. "Oh...that's another one."

"Another one, what?" Weasley anxiously replies, crowding towards her. Potter gives Draco a quick once over before he, too, rushes to her side.

She grins and smooths a hand over the swell. "They're coming faster now. It won't be long...oh!" Hermione flushes prettily, and her grin widens. "I think that was my waters."

"Your wat--oh bloody hell, now? She's...is she coming, she is, she's coming!" Weasley flies up from Hermione's side and begins pacing like a caged animal, while Potter takes the lead in holding Hermione's hand and looking both panicked and overjoyed at the same time. "Okay, so first thing's first, go get the midwife, and then Floo the healer, and then Floo mum, and then ring up your mum on the fellytone and I don't have to shout because she can hear me perfectly well even though it's bloody ludicrous trying to get your entire voice through those wire-things and then, fuck, bugger, what next, ‘Mione, I've forgotten the list!"

Weasley's all but hyperventilating, and Draco can certainly understand the feeling, though not the specific cause. "I can go get Susan," Draco then offers and is met with identical looks of surprise, as if they'd completely forgotten his presence in the bare moments between their suspicion of him and the newest Weasley child's auspicious arrival.

"And, er, I'll, yes, I can handle the Floo calls. Ron, you just stay here with Hermione and do that, er, you know, that breathing thing you're supposed to be doing," Potter adds quickly, as if remembering that he, too, can be useful.

Hermione takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly, before closing her eyes and smiling again. "Thank you both, that would be very helpful. And Ron, how about you just come here and take my hand, and we'll remember the list together."

"Okay, yes, I can do that," Weasley replies and immediately begins a breathing regimen more suited to a rampaging nundu than a person trying to have a baby, and Hermione just laughs and tries to slow him down.

"Come on, Malfoy, let's go," Potter then says, tearing Draco's gaze away from the domestic scene before him.

Once out in the hall, Potter takes off at a run down to the nearest secure fireplace, which happens to be in the kitchen. Draco follows after at a more sedate pace, knowing he'll find Susan exactly where he left her before--in his laboratory. "It's time for, well, you know," he says, when he walks in the door. "Hermione, she's--"

"--in labor? Oh goodness, right on schedule," Susan exclaims. She quickly summons her apron and gloves and rushes from the room.

"Would you expect anything less?" Draco calls after her, grinning despite himself. He then settles in to begin his daily brewing regimen of healing potions, knowing that Luna will be needing a large batch for the goodwill mission she and Rolf have been planning.

"What are you doing?"

Draco looks up, startled, to see Potter standing in the doorway looking incredulous. "What is it, Potter?"

"I thought you...er, I mean, you said you'd stay," Potter says, and Draco has no bloody idea what Potter's talking about.

"Stay?"

"Yes, stay! Come on, or we'll miss it!" Potter runs in and grabs Draco's hand, then tugs him out of the room and back up the stairs, grinning like a madman all the while. But when they reach the door to the Weasleys' bedroom again, they are met by Susan who tells them to remain outside for Hermione's comfort and then promptly shuts the door in their faces.

"I suppose I'll just get back to my work then," Draco says, but doesn't let go of Potter's hand. Now that he's not being pulled about, it actually feels rather nice--warm, solid, anchoring.

Potter exhales sharply, lets go of Draco's hand and slides down along the wall until he's seated with his legs sprawled out in front of him. "You really don't remember, do you? You're … Malfoy, you're losing time again."

Draco can feel the anxiety creeping in--he needs fresh air, sunlight, even the icy winter wind to freeze the hot, sick feeling that's bubbling beneath his skin. Potter's still talking, mumbling something, but Draco can barely hear over the alarm in his head. He needs to get out, needs to be free, but he can't move. He's rooted to the spot until, suddenly, he's at Potter's side, mirroring Potter's position with his legs thrust out in front of him and Potter's hand back in his own. Potter's thumb softly strokes Draco's, back and forth, soothing.

"Tell me what you did this morning," Potter says, quiet, but urgent. "What was the first thing you did when you woke up?"

Draco closes his eyes against the pounding tension that's building at the base of his skull. "That's just it, though, isn't it? I can't remember waking up." When he opens his eyes again, Potter's staring at him, concerned and caring in that endearingly earnest Gryffindor way of his. "Are we…" Draco trails off, afraid to voice that thought. Because they _are_ , aren't they? It's not just in his head...not always.

Potter presses his forehead against Draco's own, closes his eyes and exhales a warm breath. "Yes," he whispers, before his lips find Draco's in a kiss.

\-- -- -- --

Potter's sitting on the bed, flipping through scraps of parchment with a bemused expression on his face, and when Draco pauses in the doorway, he looks up, eyes narrowed shrewdly. "What am I looking at here?"

"I couldn't possibly tell," Draco drawls, allowing himself the attitude because this is his house, and he's perfectly allowed to be a brat in his own house.

"Come a little closer then," Potter replies, and his legs fall open, more a reflex than anything, enticing Draco into the room. He really likes it when Potter's forward like this.

Draco sits down on the bed next to him and reaches for the parchments, but Potter holds them over his head, laughing lightly, until Draco leans in and kisses him deeply, reminiscent of their first time, but hungrier, more desperately because Draco doesn't know how much longer Potter will continue to indulge him in this fantasy. Potter could wake up at any moment and decide he's done, and Draco won't blame him at all. Because no matter what Potter may say or may remember, they are not built for the long haul. They're barely built for the short haul.

Potter pulls back with a sigh after a few moments of letting Draco plunder his mouth and hands Draco the parchments. "You're writing about the war," he says, as he gets up off the bed and goes over to lean against Draco's desk. He's all long limbs and hard lines, coiled, as he always seems to be, ready for whatever's going to spring up at him in the night. Draco admires that about Potter--finds it incredibly alluring, too.

Draco then glances down at the parchment pieces that Potter must have found in his desk, the snoop. 

_It seems like it sprang up overnight from the way we were so unprepared for it, but of course, that's ridiculous. These things never just happen. There were whisperings, rumblings underground for months. We should have recognized the signs. We should have known better. But then again, how could we? We were so perfectly convinced that it was over--behind us forever as we entered an unprecedented era of peace._

_To be fair, I suppose, we are more prepared than the last time something like this happened, but it is only because we're older and, in so being, wiser. We're more like a real army--not some bunch of terrified seventeen-year-olds, barely of age in the wizarding world and scarcely capable of understanding what we were really up against. But we're also those same children, with those same backgrounds and same eager sense of do-gooderism. The evil we face is not the same. This is not a single vicious man with a small horde of loyal followers and an ultimately insignificant purpose. The threat is vast. Our army is not._

_It wasn't real until Hogwarts fell. It was just a series of odd moments, skirmishes, nightmares and then suddenly the magic was just gone. The oldest magic in Britain, centuries of tradition and knowledge blinked out of existence. And we had no idea whom to blame. Because we were just as complicit in its downfall. We're not innocent. In war, I suppose, no one is really innocent._

"Perhaps what you should really be doing is writing down everything you do all day. Then you might not forget all the time," Potter continues, sarcastically. "You shouldn't be writing about the war."

"And why shouldn't I?" Draco says, bristling at Potter's tone. He just doesn't understand why Potter always has to needle him. He shuffles the parchments back into some semblance of order and looks up at Potter again. "Someone needs to write all of it down, so why not me? I'm actually an excellent writer, in case you hadn't noticed."

"But you're missing half the picture, Draco," Potter replies. "Just when exactly did you completely lose the plot?"

Draco stiffens. "What did you just call me?"

Potter smiles a Cheshire grin and slinks forward again to wrap his arms around Draco's neck. His nimble fingers then slide down and slip the robes off Draco's shoulders. "I called you mad...but you already know that, don't you? You already know all about it," Potter teases, his tone low and dangerous in a way that sends a thrill through Draco--though whether it's desire or fear, he honestly doesn't know. 

"I'm not mad," Draco protests weakly.

"Yes, you are," Potter continues, as he begins to undo the buttons on Draco's shirt. "You're completely and utterly barking. You've gone round the twist. Batshit, Draco!"

Draco closes his eyes and lets Potter continue undressing him. Potter frees Draco from the confines of his shirt and then kneels between Draco's legs as he begins mouthing at Draco's chest, licking and sucking bright red marks into the pale skin. He moves up and circles his tongue around Draco's nipple, coaxing the bud into hardness before biting gently and then soothing again with his tongue. Draco lets out a hiss of pleasure, and why not? Because as Potter once assured him, just because something is only happening in his head, doesn't mean that it isn't real.

"I've been thinking about this all day," Potter murmurs into Draco's skin, tongue laving against the coarse blond trail that leads down into Draco's trousers. He undoes Draco's belt and tugs at his flies. "Thinking about you...all the things I've wanted to do to you."

"Such as?" Draco breathes.

Potter flicks a glance up at him through his thick eyelashes, sensuous and yet shy. He's playing it perfectly, but of course he is. Potter's always going to be perfect in Draco's dreams.

"I like the way you taste," Potter says, then runs his tongue along his bottom lip. "I want to taste you now. I want to feel the weight of you in my mouth, on my tongue...I want to suck your cock until you're crying for release. I want you to come down my throat, Draco. I want to taste you and swallow every single drop." He's panting a bit around the words, arousing himself even as he arouses Draco with his lasciviousness. Potter's so strait-laced, so good and kind and sweet and vanilla, but when he's with Draco, he's a dirty, filthy, sexy and divine treat. All for Draco. Only for Draco. No one else knows what Potter's really like, what Potter really needs.

"Tell me more," Draco commands, voice stuttering only a bit, as he raises his hips so Potter can ease his trousers and pants down from around his waist. "Tell me what else you want. Tell me what you want me to do for you."

Potter wraps a hand around Draco's cock and begins a slow, torturous rhythm, stroking from root to tip and swiping his thumb over the sensitive head, leaking as it already is from Potter's words alone. When he looks up, his eyes are lust-darkened, and Draco struggles not to just pull Potter into his lap and never let him go. "I want you to fuck me, Draco," Potter half-moans. "I want you inside me. I want you to split me open, fill me up, take me, claim me, fuck, Draco, I want so much."

"I can give it to you," Draco replies. What's the harm? Potter will never know. What's the harm here in his mind? "I can give you everything you want, Potter."

"Please," Potter says. He smiles. He opens his mouth and leans forward, swirls his tongue around the head of Draco's cock and slides his lips down along the shaft, hollows his cheeks and sucks.

Draco throws his head back and comes with a shout. His eyes open wide, his blurred vision clears, the buzzing goes away, and he puts down the pewter cauldron--pewter is the wrong metal for this potion, he realizes. He needs the copper. God, he could have killed someone, making a healing potion in a pewter cauldron.

"Draco."

Theo stands in the doorway, wringing his hands, avoiding his gaze studiously.

Draco raises a hand; it shakes visibly, so he grips it in his other hand to quell the tremors. "Was I sleeping?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know, Draco, I…" Theo trails off.

"Theo, I think there's something wrong with me," Draco admits. "I'm so tired."

\-- -- -- --

Hogwarts is eerily quiet--not even the susurrus of snow brushing as the delegation makes its way across the grounds seems to penetrate the heavy silence of the green zone. Draco remembers a time when even on nights like these, the castle was alive with purpose and energy. Not so, anymore, it seems. He wishes that there was another safe place, another location to provide respite from the endless fighting, but Hogwarts has always been a haven...even if it isn't Hogwarts anymore, not really.

Draco wraps his cloak more tightly around his body and tries not to see the ravages of warfare at every turn, as he trudges along with the rest of his comrades. Potter, at the head of the line, seems to shine like a beacon against the darkness and fear, though Draco knows he's being hyperbolic again. It's just a _Lumos_ , and Potter's just a man. He needs to stop this madness now, before they send him back to headquarters to wait.

A sudden howl shatters the odd peace, and Draco freezes to the spot, clutching out for the nearest person. Theo squeezes Draco's forearm in solidarity, but looks just as terrified, just as lost and confused. He needs Weasley to feel strong. Draco needs Potter.

He slips through the ranks and falls into step with Potter at the front. "That sounded awfully close," he says, uselessly. Potter obviously heard it too.

"They know better than to breach the green zone. We're all of an accord," Potter replies. He takes Draco's hand nonetheless, and Draco turns his head to see the smile playing at Potter's lips. Warmed by it, he smiles too.

When they reach the entrance, they move quickly up the stairs and inside. "I'll see to the refugees!" Luna says, taking Rolf by the hand and bounding over to the Great Hall. Draco turns around surreptitiously to see Theo's expression, and the brief flash of fury on his friend's face emboldens Draco to squeeze Potter's hand. It's nice to have something and not be afraid of losing it--because he has Potter now. Perhaps in a small way, he's always had Potter.

"We're off to the Tower," Potter then says, as his fingers tangle with Draco's. "You don't have to come, if you'd rather help Luna and Rolf?"

"I'm with you," Draco responds, defiant and bold. Gryffindor, even. He's afraid, yes, but he has Potter, and Potter will always protect him. Potter will always save him, even and especially when he doesn't need saving anymore.

Draco hasn't been to the Tower in years, not since the night his entire life was decided for him in a matter of moments--or so he thought, anyway. What a difference a few years has made.

His spine straightens and his face sets to stone as he walks along toward the scene of his former failure. He wonders what Potter is thinking, whether Potter's mind casts back to the last time they shared this space (because he knows, now, that Potter was there that night too...of course he was). But of course not. Potter is much too focused on the task at hand. They have far more important missions and far more terrifying monsters than the Dark Lord with which to concern themselves.

"Everyone stay on the alert," Potter says quietly, the sound traveling in the eerie silence. "Just through the door there, into the classroom."

A low chuckle from the room meets them as they step through the door. "Classroom? You and your magical folk studied here so long ago, Commander. It is not a classroom any longer."

Draco's hackles rise, and he flicks his wrist, letting his wand fall into his hand, sensing his comrades doing just the same. Potter's taught them all well.

"So you have arrived, Commander Potter, and you have brought all your little cubs. How quaint." Their leader stands tall and proud, fierce and frightening, beckoning them closer with a crook of his finger.

"Where is your delegation?" Potter asks, voice high and tight, clipped with suspicion.

The leader laughs again, the sound traveling like a chill down Draco's spine.

"It's a trap!" someone shouts, and hexes begin flying about before Draco can even figure out who said anything and whether or not it's true.

Draco reaches into his inner pocket and withdraws two bottles. He immediately launches them across the room, where they smash on the floor. A thick, noxious red gas coalesces and begins to spread through the air, causing the others to double over, choking. He tries to throw up a hasty Bubble-Head Charm, but then Potter grabs his arm and pulls him bodily through the doorway out into the debris-strewn mess of a hallway.

"Run, Draco, run! We still can't--we can't Apparate on the grounds!"

Draco stops abruptly, as the fear starts to melt away in the face of proof that he's just dreaming this. Because of course, he's just dreaming this. They never would have invited him along in the first place. His place is at headquarters, brewing.

"Draco!" Potter cries out, trying to tug him along. "What are you doing? Come on!" His green eyes are wide and fearful, but Draco knows better.

"Hush now, you speccy git," Draco teases, warming to the dream. "Come here and kiss me."

"MALFOY!" Potter thunders, gripping him roughly by the shoulders. "We have to get out of here!"

Dread suffuses him, a tingling, prickling, terrifying sense that he has been well and truly duped. Potter's pulling him forward again, and his legs move, carrying him to the door, to safety, to whatever Potter's moving towards, but Draco cannot hear a thing over the pounding of blood in his ears, the endless, terrifying buzzing in his head.

"Wake up," he says to himself. 

Potter can't hear him. Potter's afraid. But Potter's never afraid--Potter's supposed to be strong and confident, a bloody force of everything that's good and right and decent and kind that's left in the world. Potter is everything. He's not afraid. He walked to his own death without looking back, and he'll do it again--one, ten, a hundred times without being afraid to sacrifice, to give it all up in the name of love. He's not afraid. He doesn't run away.

"Malfoy, please!" Potter yells, pleading and pulling on Draco's arm. "Please, we have to get out of here!"

They run together until Draco's lungs burn, his head pounds and his muscles scream from overuse--until they reach the edge of the castle grounds, push through the boundary line and finally Disapparate for home.

\-- -- -- --

Draco bends low over the parchment, scribbling in tiny, cramped handwriting. The _Lumos Maxima_ lighting the room flickers and dims suddenly, and he irritably flicks his wand again, recasting with more strength. His magic has been all over the place since the flight from Hogwarts, but he can't focus on that just now. One thing at a time.

_I woke up. I don't know how long I slept, but I did sleep because I remember waking up. I had a bath, washed my face and combed my hair. I cleaned my teeth. I went to the kitchens to get something to eat. Mazzie had made eggs and toast. The toast was burnt, but I ate it anyway. I was hungry because I hadn't eaten the night before. I just went to bed. After the flight? After the attack? Two days ago?_

"Here you are." Potter's voice is cool and aloof from the doorway, and Draco tries to ignore him, but he's never really been able to ignore Potter. "You weren't at the debriefing."

"I didn't think anyone would miss me," Draco responds, not looking up from the parchment. "I was barely part of it. I shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"Or you don't even think you were there."

Draco whirls around at that, so quick that his spine cracks. "I _was_ there! I was there, and it was a bloody trap, and you dragged me there because...because…" He cannot find the words, as a sudden fury overtakes him. He lunges for Potter, whose reflexes have always been better--except that once, just that one time, and Potter deflects him easily. Draco's weight carries him forward and he falls onto the bed on his stomach. He lets out a furious growl and rolls over to find Potter looming above him, face hard, but eyes betraying him with their obvious concern. It only serves to make Draco even angrier. "You shouldn't have made me come! You were supposed to protect me, and all you did was put me in danger!"

He's being a bit irrational, and deep down, he knows it because Potter actually did see him safely out of there. Of course, Potter also went back to the fray because when Draco arrived at Grimmauld Place, disoriented and exhausted, Potter was nowhere to be found, and Draco had to endure alone Ginevra's terrified questioning, Weasley's frustrated ranting and Hermione's efforts to sort them both out, all while the tiny infant screamed and screamed. But he remembers all of it, every squalling second of it, and that's important. He can remember exactly what happened because he was _there_.

Potter sighs, "You can't just disappear."

Draco lets out a hysterical laugh. "And why can't I? Are you my keeper, Potty?"

Potter winces at the insult, folds his arms over his chest and looks away. Draco can see the anger just under the surface, though, and wonders if Potter feels the same way he does. Does Potter's adrenaline rise at the thought of a tussle with his old nemesis--no matter their relationship, such as it is, now? Does his cock?

"Do you think you can just come into my home and demand things of me whenever you wish?" Draco continues in his haughtiest drawl. He's a bit rusty perhaps, but the look on Potter's face now reminds him so much of the Potter of his youth--not the hero who saved them all, but the annoying git who loved attention and who refused Draco's hand. Draco rises up on his elbows, lets his head fall back to expose his neck in a long, elegant column. Potter loves his neck, he knows, loves to kiss it, suck red marks into it, draw his fingers along it. "Do you really think you have any power whatsoever over me?" he whispers.

"Draco, I--"

"--don't call me that," Draco admonishes softly, as he lets his legs fall open. Potter crawls between them and kneels on the bed, his hands framing Draco's shoulders. Draco leans up again, lips ghosting against Potter's own as he adds, "It's not real if you call me that."

"Fuck, Draco!" Potter suddenly growls, pulling back and abruptly shattering the moment. He climbs off the bed and begins pacing the floor in front of it. "You're doing it again!"

"What am I doing?"

"I don't even know. It's like you're...you don't know what--" Potter cuts himself off, obviously frustrated by his inability to find the words. Draco knows what that's like, and he raises his arms, beckoning Potter closer again. "No, you don't get to just touch me and make it all go away again. We need to figure this out. We need to--"

"--oh, shut up, Potter," Draco interrupts, as he gets up and crosses the short distance between them. "As usual, you're being completely ridiculous." He leans in, purposely getting into Potter's face, trying to get under his skin, as only they have ever been able to do to each other. For all the control he usually exerts over Potter in his dreams, the reality of the fight is much better. 

"Don't think you can talk your way out of this either," Potter warns, but his eyes give him away again, flicking down to Draco's lips. Draco runs his tongue over them for good measure, and Potter stutters a bit as he adds, "We can't just ignore what's happening to you."

Draco lets his hands fall at Potter's hips, fingers catching on the rough fabric of Potter's denims, but keeps his eyes set on Potter's own. "Such trash...such absolute _filth_ ," he whispers. "You wouldn't know class if it came in and broke your nose." He smirks. "Which it has…"

Potter's eyes flash dangerously. "I'd hold my tongue if I were you, Malfoy," he says, his tone a warning too.

"Make me," Draco answers, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

If this weren't real, Potter would sink to his knees and take Draco's cock in his mouth, suck him well and quickly until Draco came. If it was all in his head, like it sometimes, but not always was, Potter would lie down on the bed, spread his legs and let Draco fuck him hard and with abandon. If Potter was anyone else, he would just let it go, let the madness and anxiety fade into the background of their shared life, and Draco wouldn't have to worry about being a project of Potter's.

But Merlin, how he wants to be. And so he's quite lucky that this is actually happening to him--that Potter is here and wants to help. He gets to experience the terrifying and beautiful sensation of being within the circle of Potter's love and therefore worthy of Potter's protection and help. It must be what Weasley and Hermione feel every day, and it's almost overwhelming.

"Don't make me," Draco whispers, as Potter steps closer, and his eyes soften again. His mouth slackens and the tension in his shoulders eases. His hands slip around Draco's waist and pull him close. His lips press against Draco's own, until Draco continues, still quiet, almost afraid to raise his voice, "Can we try to figure it out in the morning?"

Potter's lips curve into a smile, and Draco struggles not to be too over-eager in returning it. It's a terrible idea, possibly one of the worst he's ever had, to think that he and Potter can ever be anything more than this. But then again, he has no idea what this really is. "I'm tired," he adds. "Come to bed with me. We both need rest."

"All right," Potter replies. And when they crawl together into bed, Potter's eyes flutter closed and he sleeps within moments. Draco runs a hand down Potter's chest and grins, then leans across to pull a spare bit of parchment and a quill from the night-table next to the bed--where Potter has placed his glasses, like they've always belonged just there.

\-- -- -- --

_At the risk of hyperbole, which I imagine, dear reader, you are already too familiar with in my style of writing, I can categorically state that Harry Potter is a hero. I feel I am uniquely qualified to say this, in that I know him and have known him since we were young. But more than that, I knew him before he was a hero--or rather, I suppose I should say that I knew him before the mantle of heroism was thrust upon him, and he took it up without question. Or perhaps, he was always a hero? If I'm honest, I don't necessarily understand the mechanics of heroism. I only know that Potter is one._

"You shouldn't write so much about me," Potter says, as his fingers card lightly through Draco's hair. They lie together in bed, in the wee hours of the morning--or perhaps it's still considered night at this hour. Draco has no idea how long Potter has been asleep or even awake, watching him write. "I'll get a big head."

"No, you won't," Draco replies. "You're not that sort."

Potter chuckles lightly. "I am, a bit."

"Then I'm rubbing off on you," Draco insists. "Because you aren't. I might have thought that once, but it's not true."

"Fine...but you really shouldn't write so much about me. I mean it. Anyone would think you were compensating for something."

"Don't sass me, Potter." Draco sets the parchment aside and rolls over, reversing their positions and trapping Potter beneath him. "I'm writing about you because you're a significant part of this war. If people in the future are to understand what we went through, then they have to know about you."

Potter glances away with a sigh, until Draco reaches a hand between them and turns Potter's head back to him again. "I suppose I'm just tired of having my name be associated with war," he admits, quietly, as if he's ashamed for some reason.

"We're all tired, aren't we?" Draco replies, but his tone is soft, much softer than he's used to using on Potter. Perhaps Potter has softened him or perhaps its just the lack of sleep, the need for something that he just cannot manage to grasp and keep.

Potter huffs a dispirited laugh. "Always...some more than others," he says, looking pointedly at Draco, until Draco leans down and kisses him pliant with soft, languorous strokes of his tongue and gentle nips at his lips. He slides down to kiss and suck along Potter's jawline and down to the hollow of his neck. "Malfoy," Potter says, a whisper in the darkness, "Malfoy, Malfoy."

"What are you doing?" Draco asks, pulling back just so.

"Letting you know you're here," Potter murmurs.

Draco didn't think it was possible for a heart to really soar, and yet…

"Malfoy, will you fuck me?" Potter asks, breath hitching in his throat, as Draco aligns their cocks and thrusts his hips, teasing. "I want you to fuck me."

Draco doesn't answer aloud, but lifts up so that Potter can rid himself of the pajama pants he must have put on at some point. Draco, too, slips out of his pants and goes into the drawer to retrieve a tube of lubricant. Potter's breathing heavily, but it doesn't annoy Draco like it might have done were Potter anyone else, and as Draco slicks up his cock and fingers Potter's hole briefly, just enough to test the waters, he thinks that it's entirely possible that nothing in the entire world that has happened to him before or will happen to him going forward will be as heavy with meaning as this moment.

That Potter trusts him--there's no feeling in the world quite like it.

He sinks in deep, barely giving Potter a moment to adjust to the feeling of being filled before he starts thrusting, gently at first and then with more passion. He continues to say nothing, overwhelmed by the tight feeling that seems to have settled in his throat, stealing his words. He refuses to put a name to it just now. But slowly, as Potter's body opens itself to him, as Potter begins to moan and keen and his fingers grasp at Draco's hips, urging him harder, closer, further, he finally begins to let himself be heard.

"You want it, don't you, Potter? You want my cock in you?" Draco rolls his hips in way that makes Potter's eyes widen and mouth fall open, and he grins. "You do like that. You love the way my cock feels in that tight hole of yours. You're made for my cock, Potter. You're _made_ for me!" He speeds up, thrusting hard, a bruising rhythm, and the whine that escapes Potter's lips sends a shiver down Draco's spine.

"Dr--Dra--Malfoy," Potter manages, "please, I need to--please let me--I have to--I'm gonna--!"

"Don't you dare!" Draco cries, reaching a hand down to fist Potter's cock, squeezing just that much too hard to stop the impending orgasm. "You don't come until I say you can." Potter exhales sharply and then bites his lip, willing himself under control. Draco has never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect and filthy, and he very nearly gives permission right then. But instead, he thrusts again, setting the pace harder, and says, "Touch yourself, but do not come. I'll tell you when."

"Fuck, Malfoy, please!" Potter cries again, as he fists himself slowly, as if he thinks it will stop him from the desperate feeling of needing release.

"Tell me something--" Draco grunts, twists his hips and hammers in another rough thrust, "--that only you know about you and I…"

"When...fuck, Malfoy, I can't!" Potter cries, his hand stuttering on his cock. He's so close, and he needs it so badly, but Draco needs his answer more, so he pulls out entirely and poises himself at Potter's entrance, waiting. Potter lets out an undignified whine, and then, "When I...when you hugged me after the trials, you...fuck, Malfoy," he hisses out a breath and makes a valiant try again, "you...you kissed my ear. I didn't even know if you knew you'd done it, but you did." His voice is ragged with need and hunger, but the sudden tenderness in his eyes is enough.

"Come with me," Draco exhales and thrusts in deep. Potter lets out a string of expletives and paints his own chest with his release. Draco follows not a moment later, thrusting hard and riding it out, as he looks down at Potter shaking with the little aftershocks of orgasm. And he waits until his own ecstasy has died down somewhat before he pulls out and collapses, boneless and satiated, next to Potter on the bed.

He doesn't know how long it is before Potter stops trembling, and he stops wondering what he could possibly say that's significant enough to explain how he feels in this moment. But of course, since it's Potter, he doesn't need to actually say anything. Potter has always been, it seems, an actions speak louder than words sort of a person. So he rolls onto his side and tugs Potter into an embrace. He presses his forehead against Potter's own, and his eyes fall closed, the huff of Potter's short, slowly-evening breaths puffing pleasantly against his face.

"We're going to figure this out," Potter then mutters, sleepily. "This thing of yours."

"We will," Draco answers, fighting a smile. He then curls in further with Potter, wraps his arms more tightly around the warm, solid, _present_ body, closes his eyes and falls asleep. Tonight, he doesn't dream--he doesn't need to dream.

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/25355.html).


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